Death Row Ticket

English was too smart. Used a single tape to burn up all the rest of evidence The Detective had. He got too overzealous. He should have checked if the tape was rigged, should have stashed the others in a separate location. He felt that heart sink in his stomach feeling. Like the last three years were worth nothing -- who hasn’t been there.

Looking in the mirror trying to figure out how to start over… start new… become great again.

Casanova has been there. Whole countries are burning themselves going through their own identity crisis.

So what? Go home to your partner and kids? Holster the weapon. Hang up the boots. Punch your last clock.

Some people aren’t built like that. Some people don’t know when to quit.

English and The Detective had that in common too.

It’s why The Detective sat in his black Cadillac in the parking lot of Chicago O'Hare International Airport reloading his phone to track the flight English is on headed back to the west.

The Detective licked his dried lips, still trying to find moisture from being pounded with high proof alcohol since English has been away to wrestle in Japan. He clicked on his digital tape recorder.

“Tape #1…. English has asked me if I have delved into his father’s back history… who he was… and why others might have wanted him killed… but I am still not sold… for the last few weeks I have compiled a profile on Casanova English. One I will slowly reveal as the weeks and months continue. He thought this could end by destroying the evidence… but my theory holds and I will prove it.”


I did exactly what I threatened to do. What I did to Bryan Williams was nothing short of violent. I left him limp… in the center of the ring… beating him and my two other opponents like I told the world I would do.

A Warrior Rising, but this isn’t about any championships to me, those will just serve as temporary ash trays. I’m working my way back to full from, to striking fear into the hearts of every professional fighter, wrestling or otherwise.

Championships will never replace confidence and charisma.


“I’m jet legged as fuck,” Bash Daddy said as the taxi pulled into the hotel parking lot.

“Why the hell did with stay in Japan so long and only fly back today when the match is in a few days. You must feel as shitty as I do.”

“Why the fuck would I want to get back to the Unites States? This shit hole depresses me every time we enter a new state. It’s eating itself alive… I went through my faze of trying to save em. Best I can do now is keep my hands warm with the fires being lit.”

People like TJ and Lil’ Petey want to be grand distractions. Flashing furs and neon lights selling these kids hope where there is none… and they call me the bad guy.

We carried the bags in and let Voodoo do the talking with the desk to secure the pass key to the room. She was waiting for us when we got inside -- laying on the bed staring at the white textured ceiling.

It was a modest room with two double beds -- Voodoo and Bash often spelt together anyway when he wasn’t nailing one of the guys from a local construction job. Though he was out, he preferred his partners in the closet -- I don’t know if I’ll ever understand why, but he’ll come around. A person like Bash, as much as they don’t like to admit it, want love and acceptance more than anything. Hell, it’s why he’s had my back for so long.

I put a cigarette between my lips and lit it.

“I couldn’t get us a smoking room…,” Voodoo said, as if I would care at all.

“Well, I guess if Project Honor wants to keep me on the roster they are going to have to pick up a few cleaning bills if they can’t help us find locations to help me cope with my nicotine habit.”

I smirk taking a long draw off the cigarette, the tobacco cracks slightly and only then I exhale a large cloud into the room.

“Well, fuck,” Voodoo says batting her hand around to clear smoke from near her face.

“Maybe some of us don’t want lung cancer early, asshole,” she said coughing.

So, I stepped onto the tiny deck, placed my hands on the rail and looked over Chicago. Some of the biggest matches of my career happened here when I was starting out. A city with grit that knows how to give someone a break if they are willing to suffer long enough. That’s the vibe I always got here, and if we're all starting out on a level playing field I don’t think there is much wrong with it -- but that’s never the case it is.

I’m rags and people like Lil Petey and TJ are the riches. They can pick this combat sports thing up as a hobby -- not as a means of survival like some of us.

“Well, you find yourself challenging for gold again… in a short period of time,” Bash said, joining me on the small steel deck.

“Kind of a bad omen isn’t it? Every time you get close to having a title shot a place closes down and dies. It’s like a curse keeping you from ever getting back to the top -- because no one has built a substantial stage since.”

He was becoming more philosophical, maybe Bash has been listening to me these years the whole time and not blindly following me like a moth to a lamp.

“This is a new beginning Bash, I’m trying to be a little bit optimistic here. I need a night off from the black magic shit with V. I need to hit the gym in the morning, make sure the grip on my choke stays tight. That feeling I got in Tokyo, the fans, the reactions, the way I made a hero look mortal… I missed this,” I said.

“But what if they find away to take it all away from you again, bury you at the bottom of the card, refuse to give you rematches. Stack the cards…”

“Then I’ll burn it all down again…” I toss the cigarette off the deck letting it hit the ground sidewalk below, spreading embers like a tiny fireworks show.

Voodoo and Bash sit on the hotel room bed, both of them watching something on TV as the online stream flicks on. It’s just an overhead camera of the two, then the camera angle shifts to show what they are watching on an out of date early 2000’s flat screen.

“Hello,” I say, my arms latched to an electric chair, straps pulled tight -- cigarette hanging from my mouth, the ember growing as I gently suck on it.

The camera holds, just watching me on the TV speak from the wooden electric chair.



“I know people like you TJ, people like Petey. You want to have fun, keep this happy go lucky attitude, mask the emotions. Well TJ i’ll fish hook my fingers in the side of your mouth, puncture through the side of your cheek with my finger nail and pull till your cheeks hang at the smile is permanent. Then, after your friend gets a good look I’m coming for that championship.”

“You seem so proud of the title win Petey, but I wouldn’t be… the Warrior Raising Championship has been swapped like a mouthful of cum from whore to whore since this company was birthed -- and if you ask me that’s nothing to be fucking proud of. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I’ll deal with you soon enough.”

I wiggle my wrists, the leather straps squeaking against my skin. The switch to shoot power to the chair is framed just over my left shoulder -- suggesting at any moment it could fall to the on position.

“TJ, I saw how pretty you look taking a chair shot to the skull and I think these fans deserve a replay. I think smashing your face off the announce table was just a glimpse of the future… maybe after I am done maiming you in front of your friend you’d be more comfortable being heard rather than seen.”

My cigarette is burning right to the filter, so I spit is out and blow the last plume of smoke toward the camera.

“You are probably wondering why I am in this chair. The last person to be executed in this state was Andrew Kokoraleis, March 17, 1999. He was part of the Rigger Crew with his brother Thomas and another accomplice -- the group kidnapped women in the 1980’s and killed them in sick satanic rituals. Parts were eaten, severed, bodies were found mutilated -- but I want to focus on the Kokoraleis brothers.”

“Andrew was put to death for his crimes, but when a new governor came in he nixed the death penalty completely. Andrew was the last one killed and in 2019 his brother Thomas was paroled. The thing society doesn’t understand is justice often doesn’t happen in a courtroom -- and I don’t plan on taking a single sacrifice to set things right in the pro wrestling world. Exposing TJ as the joke he is won’t be enough -- see once I mangle him -- I’m coming for Petey and no microphone is going to stop me -- we can duel on them -- throw them at one another -- beat each other half to death so the arena hears every fucking bonk.”

“Petey won’t have to worry about me kidnapping you TJ, I know he was worried about that at Night of Honor. TJ they can find your body in the center of the ring -- your execution at Proving Ground will be public. Lil’ Petey’s bourgeoisie ass is used to having front row tickets to everything.”

“Well, welcome to death row kids!”

The switch on the wall falls -- seemingly about to power the electric chair -- but the feed cuts at the same time.


The Detective rolls out of bed spilling the last bit of whiskey in the glass on his nightstand. He scrambled to meet the person at the door -- pulling on his jeans.

“Fuck,” he said. “Don’t leave one second.”

He secured the parcel from the delivery driver and tore it open.

He ran his hand over the leather wrapped books smiling. He flicked on the tape recorder.

“Tape 1, continued…. I finally got them… his old diaries. Casanova’s passion before wrestling was writing, he was an incredibly detailed journalist. He cultivated that by journaling, every traumatizing moment, every instance of failure and triumph. I really didn’t think she would come though, his high school sweetheart, but she thinks I am trying to help him not incarcerate him -- but all that means is she knows something is wrong with the man too.”

The Detective runs his hand across one of the journals and pulls it out of the box, blowing a thick layer of dust off it. He starts stacking them up in a pile.